


Anything but Lonely

by sorrens



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Crowley is Good With Kids (Good Omens), Crowley is bad at food, Depression, Dysphoria, Eating Disorder Not Otherwise Specified, Genderfluid Crowley (Good Omens), Multi, They work it out together, nonbinary warlock, so is warlock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-27
Updated: 2020-01-16
Packaged: 2021-02-26 02:07:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,216
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21985630
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sorrens/pseuds/sorrens
Summary: "Warlock was sixteen and miserable. He was not miserable because he was sixteen, despite what his educators would think, the two just happened to cooccur such that his misery slid under the radar.It was normal teenage angst after all."When poor coping strategies, dysphoria, and loneliness plague the teen's existence someone from his past comes back to him.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley & Warlock Dowling
Comments: 19
Kudos: 149





	1. Chapter 1

“Here comes the nuclear missile,” his nanny made a whistling noise as the spoon approached, sinking in to Warlock’s open mouth with a muffled explosion.

He giggled, of course he did, Nanny always came up with the most ridiculous mealtime games.

He giggled and the mashed potato escaped; splattering over table, dress and black sunglasses.

“Bloody—“ she whipped off her sunglasses and gave them a wipe, allowing him a momentary glimpse of amber eyes.

He giggled again.

“Good one kid, your father would be proud,” she clucked fondly, and went back to ladling the mash.

“Oh my,” an unwelcome someone came bustling in to the kitchen, always desperate to secrete himself in every instance of the kid’s upbringing, “Did we have a little accident?” Brother Francis hovered by the oven. ~~Infernal~~ _blessed_ straw of wheat still clamped between ~~infernal~~ _blessed_ teeth.

Nanny’s eyes narrowed, piercing the gardener with a glare that made itself known despite the presence of glasses.

“Shouldn’t you be tending to Brother Slug and Sister Snail?” She asked tartly. For Satan’s sake! Aziraphale wasn’t permitted to be in the main house and yet here he was, bumbling in at dinnertime—

“Bruva slug!” Warlock squawked, slamming his fists on the table and upsetting the rest of his meal.

Crowley gave a low growl and began the painfully human process of clean up, dabbing at the boy’s press linen shirt gingerly.

The kid was at an important stage, where he was becoming increasingly perceptive of his surroundings such that the pair of godfathers had agreed that miracles would no longer fly under the radar. The last thing they needed was the boy babbling on about magic. Not that his parents listened to him, Crowley thought ruefully, but they didn’t want him asking questions later in life with the scant memories he may retain.

“It’s hard enough to get him to eat without you hanging around distracting him with your _pleasant influences._ ” Nanny screwed up her nose as the gardener rushed forward to pluck peas out of the boy’s hair.

“Maybe he needs both of us present,” he hissed pointedly, “Maybe referring to carbohydrates as missiles isn’t the best approach,”

Oh so he heard that bit.

“The best approach,” she mimicked, slapping the gardener’s hand away, “Who’s been raising him the last 4 years?”

“Both of us,” he said stubbornly.

She sighed, “Alright, let me rephrase that: who’s been changing his nappy and burping him?”

Brother Francis wilted slightly.

“I guess that’s you, dear.”

Nanny huffed and threw the napkin down on the table, a slight twitch of the fingers preventing the unattended spills from staining.

“But, I have read a parenting book or two,” the gardener said eagerly, pulling out a chair and sitting down in a mound of smock and leaf-litter, “I think the problem is that you need to model the behaviour you want.” He said importantly.

Nanny refrained from rolling her eyes but let him continue.

“See dear, the problem is that you don’t show him how to eat properly, because you don’t eat!”

She sank down on her chair like a petulant child, “Come on angel, it’s not that.”

Her companion stared imploringly, “Do you have a single, better idea?”

It was her turn to slam fists on the table.

“You know I don’t like eating the way you do, can’t you just leave it alone?”

“Well, maybe I can take Warlock at mealtimes?” The angel said hopefully. That wasn’t going to work, his level of involvement was already suspicious enough, with more than one staff member remarking on the surprisingly close relationship between the gardener and Warlock (not to mention his nanny). No, they couldn’t risk it.

“Stop meddling,” Nanny hissed, dragging Warlock’s chair slightly closer to her protectively.

The kid giggled as the chair scraped across the ground, pitching forward and wrapping his arms around Nanny’s neck like one of those toy monkeys.

“Please, Crowley. I think it would make all the difference if you just ate with him sometimes,”

Like the adult-shaped being she was, Nanny just stuck out her tongue at the gardener.

Warlock cackled and stuck his tongue out too.

“Don’t wanna,” she pouted.

“ _Don’t wanna_ ,” the boy echoed.

Warlock was sixteen and miserable. He was not miserable because he was sixteen, despite what his educators would think, the two just happened to cooccur such that his misery slid under the radar.

It was normal teenage angst after all.

He’d been volleyed between England and The States for the last few years, trailing behind his father in his assorted duties. For the time being (and that time was undefined and liable to change at a moment’s notice) he was in England and forced to attend a public boy’s school on the outskirts of London.

It was his third day today.

He came downstairs in the blazer (he didn’t like) and the shorts (he didn’t want to wear) with his hair (he kept “too long”) and his eyeliner (that he shouldn’t wear) done to perfection. This new housekeeper was a mess. She was a young university student who was way out of her depth in the Dowling’s big London abode, not quite knowing the first thing about taking care of a house of this size. She also wasn’t much of a cook, which Warlock saw as a bit of a win.

She was hired by an assistant to the assistant of his father, who was probably told to just pick the applicant with the most “impressive” looking credentials from the lot. This assistant took this quite literally: Julie was a grad student one semester away from finishing her PhD in Microbiology.

She was used to using the autoclave in the lab.

She knew stuff-all about how to run an actual dishwasher.

“You’re going to have to teach me sometime,” she sighed, admiring Warlock’s perfectly even wings. That was another good thing about her — it was just her and Warlock most of the time and she thought his style was cool.

He felt a safety around her he hadn’t felt in years.

“Sorry kid, I tried to make toast but the handle got jammed.”

That explained the lingering smell that had travelled up the hallways.

“S’all good,” Warlock shrugged and shouldered his bag, intent on making a quick escape.

“Hey, wait! I’ll grab you a flapjack to eat on the bus.” She called out to him.

His heart sunk and he mumbled a reply.

“What?”

“I don’t wanna!” He shouted, stamping his foot. He slammed the front door behind him and briefly wondered when he’d regressed ten years.

We all need a way to cope.

We all learn to cope by mirroring the behaviours of our caregivers.

Warlock admittedly didn’t have much care given to him over the course of his short life — which perhaps necessitated the coping — but he’d had one person who’d undoubtably loved him.

She’d disappeared, leaving behind fragments of memories — amber eyes, a rivalry with the gardener, a curious ability to make things go right, a lot of satanic chants, and one seemingly uneventful interaction over a plate of mashed potato.

Nanny never did take up eating with her charge. Warlock hadn’t noticed until the gardener pointed it out, then it became all he could think about.

At mealtimes he ate quietly rather than putting up a fuss.

Wondering.

He held out a piece of broccoli to her once.

“For you,” he beamed.

Nanny had chuckled, “Thinly veiled kindness to get rid of your vegetables? Wait ‘till angel hears of this dastardly plot.”

But she didn’t take it.

A morsel of food never seemed to pass her lips.

Warlock boarded the bus with trepidation. Heads turned as he walked up the aisle.

There was a muffled shout from the back, some kind of insult he only half-heard.

 _We’ll send you to a boys’ school. Make you more of a man._ His father had said during one of his monthly visits.

He’d averted his gaze. Picked at his nail polish. Acutely aware that he looked nothing like the son that his father wanted.

Had wanted.

But did he ever want him? Or did he want the idea of a son? The glue to their happy little family. A photo opportunity. His mother was around less often, it would seem she was going out of her way to avoid her husband.

Maybe he hadn’t quite lived up to his purpose to hold things together.

He sunk in to an empty row of seats.

If he couldn’t hold things together, he might as well tear them apart.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley's relationship with food (or lack thereof) post-armageddon't.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mild panic attack and body dissatisfaction expressed in this chapter.
> 
> (if there's any eating disorder behaviours or general body image concerns you want me to write in please let me know in the comments - 'cause idk where this is going, and I'm open to suggestions of what readers want to see! But thanks for joining in on the ride!)

“Are you suggesting we go to a _couples_ counsellor?” Crowley’s voice was dripping with disdain and pooling into his (already too bitter) black coffee.

Aziraphale shuffled uncomfortably in his seat, still holding out a forkful of chocolate mousse for the demon to try.

“Honestly,” he sighed, returning to his dessert, “You know that’s not what I meant. I said, if you’re so hell-bent on avoiding food, maybe you should talk to someone about… why that is.”

Crowley growled and channelled all of his demonic energy into _not_ flipping the table and storming out.

“I’m hell-bent, as you say, because I am a demon. We don’t need food.” He hissed, a bit louder than necessary. Aziraphale waved a hand lazily so that the adjacent diners were met with static, not a 6000 year old occult being’s tantrum.

“I’m sorry dear. I said I wouldn’t push.” The angel began to worry at his waistcoat and Crowley wilted at the sight, all of the fight gone from him.

“Hey,” he tugged the hand away from the worn velvet and gripped it tightly, “I know you said this was important for you; us eating as a couple. I agreed. I did! And what sort of demon doesn’t keep his promises?” (Aziraphale’s lip quirked upwards slightly) “It’s just a difficult skill to get used to.”

His companion glared into the dessert as he took a deep breath.

“It’s silly I just find it difficult to believe… What with your corporation looking like that— And you say that you like how I am— but then you don’t like eating… that, that you don’t value being thin,” Aziraphale’s voice dropped to a whisper, an errant tear drifting down his cheek. This was not what their afternoon tea was supposed to be about, Crowley thought brokenly. He dropped to his knees on the tearoom floor and pulled Aziraphale in to a tight hug, head pillowed on his angel’s warm, soft stomach.

He felt muscles tense then relax.

“I love you. I love every part of you.” He murmured in to the fabric. Sure, it’d taken a painfully long time post the not-quite-end of the world to say it, but the demon was making up for lost time (and that 6000 years too). He didn’t want the angel to get the wrong idea, it was nothing to do with appearance — how could it be when they could alter their corporations with a snap of their fingers? No, he’d been there whilst Aziraphale processed his feelings towards Gabriel and the comment on his vessel. Upon hearing what had happened Crowley was willing to hunt down and discorporate the archangel. Would have done so gleefully for even less. But he couldn’t. Instead he fought to convince Aziraphale what others’ opinion on his corporation was, frankly, irrelevant.

(Except for Crowley’s, his was valid because the angel was beautiful but, by golly, his cowardly heart hadn’t been quite ready to say that yet)

And that he shouldn’t change his corporation based on one comment.

(“Oh dear, I have grown so attached to this body. It’s my most comfortable form. Never could spend more than a year with something different.” The angel fussed and sighed and patted his stomach as though willing it to shrink. Crowley had to step forward to remove the hand, holding it in his own. Then Crowley had to be painfully soppy and it wouldn’t do to repeat it again but the conversation culminated in Aziraphale giving the demon a soft smile and agreeing that maybe, perhaps, Gabriel mightn’t be the best authority on what things “should” be.)

“Dear, you’re making a bit of a scene,” Crowley felt his hair being tugged and raised his head. Whatever distraction the angel had cast previously seemed to be wearing off, and the occupants of adjacent tables were now staring at what could either have been a botched proposal or some kind of bizarre grovelling. It was more so the latter on this occasional.

“Oop,” Crowley scrambled to his feet with the elegance of a drunk giraffe and waved hand carelessly at the gawking crowd.

“Think about nice things and leave us alone,” he muttered, “I don’t know what you people find interesting.” He held the room’s attention for a moment longer as Aziraphale whispered “Dolphins. Dolphins are nice.”

“Ah yes,” the demon cleared his throat, “Think about dolphins everybody and how your single use plastics are ruining their habitat.”

He sat down as the audience looked mildly off-put.

“I’m sorry Angel,” he even took off his glasses to reinforce the point (everyone else were too busy ruminating to notice), “It’s me. It’s my problem and I don’t like bringing it up because I know it’s something difficult for you too.”

Aziraphale grimaced and took long, slender hands in his own.

“I know dear and it’s very thoughtful of you to think of me, but I want to be able to help you. I’ve seen the way you look at the pastries when we go to La Belle Soleil, or when we get crepes down by the river.”

Crowley mumbled something.

Aziraphale gave him a playful slap in response.

“Well you do have me now, silly. You have me always. But you still look like you’re missing out on something when we’re out.”

He looked meaningfully at the remainder of his dessert, that he’d noticed Crowley eyeing off more than once.

The demon sighed and put his head in his hands.

“’S just, I don’t like the texture sometimes and it makes my corporation feel weird. Like, like my stomach is going to burst and it starts making noises,”

The angel hummed, a small smile spreading across his face.

“Digestion, my dear. That’s the word you’re looking for.”

“Well, it’s uncomfortable and I don’t like it!” He slammed his hands on the table, upsetting the dregs of his coffee.

“Oh dear, look at you carrying on. I say, I don’t think “here comes the aeroplane” — or what was it? — Ah, yes, the nuclear missile — will work in this situation. But maybe you need a different temptation?” Aziraphale grinned slyly, plucking the lone strawberry that sat atop his dessert and holding it gently between his teeth.

Crowley had few weaknesses.

This was one of them.

He lunged forward to make contact with his angel’s lips, sweet and tasting of tea and chocolate. Then there was a tongue tentatively pushing forward and Crowley yielded to the advance, only to have the berry deposited in his mouth.

He made a noise of rejection and, for a few seconds, the pair of them were locked in a ridiculous tussle as the strawberry was traded back and forth before the demon finally relented.

“Fine,” he withdrew petulantly, berry clasped between his teeth.

The blond raised his eyebrows and glared until the strawberry disappeared from sight, sliding down his throat with the slight quiver of his Adam’s apple.

“S’nice,” Crowley shrugged, adjusting his collar to distract from the overwhelming panic that was swelling up inside him. Aziraphale noticed, he always did, and locked their arms together tightly.

“Might be nicer if you chew it next time,” he chided.

“True,”

They were walking down the street, having relieved the poor cafe of their bizarre performance, and Crowley was growing increasingly jittery. He tended to walk like he drove, without little care for pedestrians and road rules, which was particularly dangerous when his mind was somewhere else.

Aziraphale calmly guided the two of them around road blocks and other foot traffic, pulling the demon to a halt whenever crossing signals were red as the other hopped up and down like at the beach with no shoes.

The distress was rolling off of him in waves, so much so that the angel couldn’t tune it out. As heart wrenching as it was, he almost didn’t want to. This was his Crowley, and the blond wanted to understand. He was about to understand a bit more as Crowley bent down to whisper in his ear.

“I don’t feel very well. I think the strawberry was poisoned.” His breathing came out uneven and jagged. He clung tighter to Aziraphale’s arm. “Angel, I don’t feel well.” He repeated, voice bordering on hysteria.

Aziraphale’s heart clenched as he guided the demon in to a nearby park and sat him down.

He rested hands on Crowley’s trembling shoulders and took a couple of deep breaths. Crowley obeyed the implicit command and managed to regulate his breathing to match his love’s. But then his stomach made a loud noise and lurched and he was spiralling back in to panic.

“It’s okay. It’s okay.” Aziraphale sunk forward and wrapped arms around the red head, making soothing patterns on his back.

Crowley was shaking his head as he pressed in to the well worn fabric.

“It’s so stupid. I’m so stupid. You must think I’m pathetic,” his voice broke as he crumbled in to the angel’s embrace.

“Hardly, my dear.” Aziraphale whispered softly, “I think you’re awfully brave. It’s like riding a bike, we’ll get there. And I’m not going to leave your side.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter: *violently shoves Warlock in the direction of the ineffable duo* NOW MEET!


	3. Chapter 3

Warlock hesitated when the school bus pulled up at the gates. He was still filled with a pent up, nervous energy that was not helped by almost eight hours of sitting in class.

After a few moments of dithering, the bus driver seemed to realise the boy wasn’t getting on, and let the doors swing shut with that strange squelching noise.

As the vehicle pulled away from the curb, a few boys leered down at the teen, a litany of offensive hand gestures pressed up against the windows.

Warlock had definitely made the right decision.

The walk back to the house was about forty minutes, give or take, depending on the whims of crossing signals and other pedestrians. Meandering behind a tour group as they passed through St James’ Park, the boy’s stomach twisted uncomfortably. There was a sensation to sinking towards the earth. As if gravity had redoubled its efforts on pulling him closer to the ground. His blood seemed to pool in his extremities, head growing light and vision clouding.

“Well, shit,” he muttered as he staggered to the nearest bench. From what he could discern, it seemed to be occupied with some shapes that shifted in front of his eyes. Instead he collapsed on the damp grass nearly and tried to breath steadily through his nose as the world swam before him.

Missing meals wasn’t enough to do this to him, he knew that. But the lack of sustenance combined with the physical ordeal of carrying a heavy backpack through London’s streets could be enough to push his body to it’s limits.

He fumbled with a compartment, pulling out half a roll of mint mentos and swallowed two quickly to get his blood sugar back in line.

The park around him was a blur as he chewed, a hundred voices sounding out from all directions, distant and oblivious to the boy who’d collapsed in their midst. Which was why Warlock, even in his current state of lucidity, nearly jumped out of his skin when a voice beside him enquired, “Dear boy, are you okay?”

He blinked wearily and saw a Victorian man crouched beside him — all decked out in an antique waistcoat and blindingly white hair.

“Oh, I’m not a doctor. Maybe I should call an ambulance, you look awfully ill.” The man peered at him with soft blue eyes.

“No!” Warlock sat up quickly and took a moment to orientate himself, “Nothing wrong just having a nap.”

Wow, that was a terrible explanation. But he was lucky his brain was able to string two words together in this state.

“Sounds like a bold-faced lie, but whatever floats your boat kiddo,” a voice behind the man drawled. Warlock looked up to see a person looming over the scene, hands stuffed deep in black jeans, sunglasses perched on their nose and framed by a mass of red hair, strange yellow eyes peering down at the teen.

Maybe it was the deliriousness talking, but Warlock couldn’t help but exclaim at the resemblance. Nevermind that it had been years since she’d left without a word in the middle of the night. Nor that it was highly, ridiculously, ineffably improbable that the boy would ever encounter her again. He rubbed his eyes as if to dispel the apparition, but there she was, large as life.

“Nanny?” He gasped, and promptly fainted.

* * *

“Well, shit.”

That was what the demon was thinking, but it was his companion who verbalised it.

On any other occasion, Crowley would’ve ribbed the angel for such profanity. Maybe if he was ever able to collect his remaining wits, he could do so later. It was the opportunity of a 6000 year lifetime.

He tried to walk away.

“Crowley!”

He headed in a direction that was decidedly “away”, ignoring Aziraphale calling after him. His mind churned in a way that his stomach had been just moments earlier, throwing up emotions that he didn’t particularly want to associate with. No, he had resigned to never seeing the kid again. As much as it hurt to steal away in the middle of the night, a clean break was for the best. No, he hadn’t worried about how Warlock was getting on in that big, empty house without the denizens of heaven and hell watching over him. He hadn’t, on multiple occasions, gotten extremely sloshed and tried to find the kid and apologise.

Demons don’t apologise.

There was something painfully wrong, was all his mind could register, as Warlock crumpled onto the grass. Something wrong, he was sick, maybe dying and Crowley had already walked away once, so why not again? The sensation of abandoning the boy a second time was visceral, a twist of the knife he’d driven through his heart all those years ago, but he couldn’t do this. He stopped, mapping the pain in his body — the heaviness in his chest, the way the blood pounded in his ears, attention entirely shifted from what had been bothering him just moments earlier.

He’d forgotten about the discomfort in his stomach. That uncomfortable feeling that the angel had spent the last half hour reassuring him over. That alien sensation of one strawberry in his digestive system that made him feel like a woman 7 months pregnant.

With relief, he drew a deep breath.

When he returned, the angel was running through his patented brand of ineffective fretting; he hovered, fussed, put two fingers on the unconscious boy’s cheek (“it’s how you find a human pulse, dear”), twisted his own hands enough to dislocate a few joints and shouted at a gaggle of ducks to “find a doctor!”

“Can you pick him up?” Crowley asked. Aziraphale relaxed when he saw his friend reappear. The demon knew Aziraphale was more than capable of lifting five Warlocks easily, he meant it rather as a suggestion to the poor angel.

In a moment, the boy was in his arms — a rather comical recreation of the first time Brother Francis was allowed to hold the baby all those years ago. Warlock was tall and lanky now, arms lolling around as the angel turned to Crowley undoubtably awaiting further instruction.

“Bookshop,” was all he could say.

They got there by a series of minor miracles glued together by the major miracle of none of the London city goers questioning why two strangely dressed men were abducting an unconscious teenager. Aziraphale gently lowered the pallid Warlock on to the couch as he began to stir.

“Tea!” The angel exclaimed and bustled out, leaving Crowley standing there awkwardly with hands in pockets.

The bastard must have done it on purpose.

Warlock turned his head and eyed the demon warily.

“Nanny?” He croaked out.

It was bloody exhausting thinking of a reasonable lie, or distraction, though Crowley did momentarily entertain the idea of making the boy unconscious again — but that would only delay the inevitable.

Instead he made a sort of affirmative sound and collapsed into his usual chair.

“I guess Nanny is a gender neutral term,” he drawled, “But I like Crowley now,”

A momentary confusion crossed the teen’s face, which the demon assumed had to do with the transition.

“I’m usually male now,” behind sunglasses he screwed his eyes shut, not wanting to see the kid’s recoil, “Female every second Wednesday. On Friday’s it’s nobody’s business.” He tacked on jokingly.

In truth he did fluctuate a bit, more so after the apocalypse (sadly Male presenting beings tended to garner more respect from hell, which is to say, still not much.)

Unlike Aziraphale, who was very attached to his well-worn corporation, the demon didn’t feel tied to any one presentation. Sometimes, he even liked to use this inclination to cause mischief, sniffing out the bigots and watching them squirm as he told them his pronouns.

Sometimes he just needed to use the word “pronouns” to make them squirm.

Even with his eyes shut, he heard the little “oh!” from across the room. Remembering kids were often quite openminded these days, he chanced a look at the teen. He was staring at his ex-nanny with some kind of wonderment.

“You’re like me.” He murmured.

Another twist of the knife.

In that moment Crowley regretted ever leaving the kid’s side.

It seemed, that after he left, they’d needed him more than ever.

Still, neither had any idea of how very much they had in common.

As Aziraphale came back with a plate piled high with scones, both of them instinctively flinched.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the delay, I've had too much going on to write over the last few days but I finally got a quiet few hours at work to complete this entry. I keep adding another chapter to this story because I haven't gotten to /the point/ yet but I promise /the point/ will feature in the final chapter - quite extraordinary amount of recovery and fluff!

* * *

Warlock’s reality had always been on shaky ground; between strange recollections of their childhood, a desire to escape in to their mind any time his parents were around, and the now lack of nourishment, they were never quite sure if they were hallucinating, dissociating, or if the world _really was that weird_.

* * *

Of course, they must have been hallucinating that time when they were nine and saw Nanny hiss at a leering secret service agent; long forked tongue protruding with an air of contempt when he suggested dinner and a movie with a not-so-subtle waggling of eyebrows.

And then there was the time when — their gardener of all people — offered to take them to the local park when Nanny had been too busy (“Wiling,” Brother Francis said matter-of-factly. Warlock had never gotten around to finding out what that word meant, but the fondness in the gardener’s voice make their nose scrunch up, assuming it was some kind of gross couple thing (because anyone with eyes could see the gardener and the nanny were together.) So they’d been at the park, Warlock executing some excellent subterfuge on another kid to obtain their football.

Nanny would be proud.

But they could feel the gardener’s eyes on them so they reluctantly let the girl play in their game where the ball was a magic dragon eye. All too soon another adult was approaching, and the girl’s mouth turned downwards as her father told her it was time to go home.

“— To get changed for ballet,” he explained.

But the girl had situated herself on the tanbark and refused to follow.

“Come on Rosie,” the man was getting impatient, “I have a date tonight and I need to get ready.”

Tears blossomed from the young girl’s eyes and Warlock couldn’t help but rush over to comfort her.

The man sighed and tapped his foot, shooting an exasperated glance at Francis and receiving not an ounce of sympathy in return.

“Are you okay?” Warlock asked, pressing the football back in to her hands.

“My daddy doesn’t love mum anymore.” She sniffed. Warlock hesitated, something strange and uncomfortable spreading through their chest.

“At least he loved her for a while,” they offered up, wondering if the same was ever true for their own parents.

The girl wiped her eyes and leaned forward, “I don’t think he loves me anymore either,” she confided as the man bellowed in their direction again. Warlock blinked stupidly, and that uncomfortable thing constricted tighter.

Next they knew Brother Frances was with them and lifting Warlock up with strong arms.

Then they were sitting in the Dowling’s living room, a steaming cup of cocoa sitting on the small table beside him.

“I’m—“ they looked around blearily, trying to recall how they’d gotten there. The sensation of the football in their hands still lingered. The smell of tanbark mixed with fresh rain. The girl — Rosie’s — big green eyes brimming with tears as she said something they’d been thinking all along.

Mind painfully blank, Warlock found themselves crying. Then there was a warm hand on his shoulder and Nanny was standing over them, face unreadable. The gardener hovered in the doorway.

“Do they love me?” They choked out, and Nanny swept around the couch to pull them close to her chest. She couldn’t lie, they knew that, it was her first rule. (“If you’re going to subject the world to relentless torture you can at least have the decency to be honest about it.”)

“In their own way… yes.” She replied softly. It wasn’t good enough and Warlock tried to push her away.

“But,” she continued, “We’re here to love you when their love fails.”

It had felt like a promise; one the boy had clung onto tightly. Then they were gone and Warlock was forced to name that uncomfortable thing writhing under their ribcage; a loneliness that festered and consumed them as the only people who’d loved them disappeared into the ether.

* * *

Now they were standing in front of them.

The blond who looked vaguely like his old gardener holding a plate piled high with scones.

The person they’d once known as Nanny reclined bonelessly on an old armchair.

All Warlock could say was—

“No!” Their voice came out hoarse but filled with bitterness “You don’t get to leave and just come back,”

With the anger that consumed them, it was as if their veins had been filled with fire, a numbing heat that swept through their body and caused spots to swim before their eyes.

“You don’ttt—“ they repeated, words slurring slightly. It was only then that Warlock realised that the spots were spreading, whiting out their vision completely, and maybe it wasn’t anger that was swallowing them whole.

They didn’t even get to finish their sentence.

“Oh dear,” Aziraphale nearly dropped the plate as he rushed forward to catch the teenager before they hit the ground, “If I knew what was wrong I could heal him.” He lamented, cradling the boy’s head in his arms. Crowley was pulled from his ruminating again as the angel fussed, but refused to look at his companion.

“Them,” Crowley corrected, staring brokenly at the limp figure.

He forced himself forward and studied their pallid complexion, “Low blood sugar,” he muttered out of the corner of his mouth, recalling the look of panic on Warlock’s face at the sight of the scones — perhaps a mirror of his own.

Aziraphale looked up sharply as the demon got up and pressed a hand to Warlock’s temple, “There. That should fix it. Give it a minute before they wake up.”

“How did you know?” The blond lowered them gently onto the couch and turned to Crowley, whose face looked pained.

“Maybe— maybe,” his companion sniffed, pushing up his sunglasses to hide watery eyes, “I was a bad influence on themm.”

Aziraphale opened his mouth, likely to point out the obvious, but Crowley cut him off—

“No, angel. I mean, they looked up to me a lot, and I had certain… quirks.” (His eyes slid over to the scones and the angel nodded in understanding.) “And we left before they could workthemselves out.”

A childhood that had only been held together by their presence became a wreckage the moment they left, and Warlock was left to sift through the pieces to find something worth salvaging. With all love failing them, hands empty of promises, they’d left themselves hollowed out to accomodate the loneliness and rejection he felt.

Then they left themself starving to numb that feeling.

Just as Nanny had taught them.

* * *

“Shit, shit, shit.” Crowley aimed a kick at a nearby bookshelf and, for once, the angel allowed it to land. The tomes rocked precariously at the impact but didn’t dare fall in front of their owner.

“Crowley, dear, talk to me.”

“What’s there to talk about?” Crowley pulled at his hair, “I let them down. I let them down. I—“ his voice cracked and he sunk into a heap on the floor.

“It’s unforgivable,” he muttered hoarsely, “I loved them. I love them so much. And then the apocalypse didn’t happen and, what, I just forgot about them?”

Aziraphale frowned, recalling a conversation they’d had just weeks after armageddon.

“You didn’t forget about them,” he said softly, “You wanted more than anything to be there and I— I sabotaged that.”

Crowley snorted.

“No, really, I thought it’d be too dangerous to hang around him anymore. They’re not a kid anymore, dear. I thought they’d start catching on to things— to us not ageing— to, oh Crowley I wanted them to be able to live without us.” Saying it out loud made it seem all the more cruel.

The angel hung his head.

“You’re wrong,”

The two of them whipped around as Warlock sat up on the couch; they looked pale but strangely amused.

“I’d already caught on, long time ago. You’re not exactly subtle,”

Both beings gaped at him.

“And you didn’t say anything because…” Crowley squinted over his glasses.

“Because then you’d leave,” Warlock frowned, “And I didn’t want you to leave, whether you were human or alien or wizards, it didn’t matter. You were the only one who saw me.” They spoke to Crowley.

“But then you left anyway,” his face crumpled, as if only now facing the reality of the last few years.

“We left anyway,” Crowley repeated, taking off his sunglasses and throwing them across the room with frustration. Warlock didn’t flinch at the snake eyes that regarded him, not like with the scones earlier, and his expression was so familiar; so Crowley.

It was only then that the demon realised how much he and Warlock had in common, despite them forfeiting antichrist status some years ago. How the Dowling residence reminded him of Hell. How you could leave and still be followed. Be present yet still be ignored. Not be loved by anyone and to be able to live with that.

Crowley glanced over at Aziraphale, whose concern was palpable; for both Warlock and the demon. Aziraphale who’d wrap soft, warm arms around him when the demon was panicking. Aziraphale who exuded so much love that Crowley was drawn, like a moth to a flame, to stay forever in his orbit.

He wouldn’t be able to live without that love, and he still wasn’t quite sure how he got it in the first place. Still terrified the legions of heaven and hell might come and tear it from his grasp even after all these years. But the teen had been left holding nothing; no love from parents who couldn’t find it in themselves to love each other, the absence of the two interlopers who’d raised them, the trauma and ostracisation of their gender dysphoria and neglect.

He twisted long fingers together, reminisce of the angel’s worrying, and channelled all of him energy in to one large miracle.

A static feeling soaked the air, heavy and oppressive, dragging the two beings in the suspended moment towards the earth. Warlock stayed frozen in the second the angel and demon had stepped away from.

“What are you doing?” Aziraphale gasped, crashing to his knees on the dusty carpet. Time miracles were always costly, and the demon hadn’t used one since the airfield.

Crowley, eyes uncovered and vulnerable, stopped fighting against the feeling and let himself get pulled down as well.

“I don’t know what to do Aziraphale,” he babbled, face twisted with anguish, “I let them down.”

“No,” Aziraphale said gravely, shuffling forward across the floor, “We let them down.”

This only made Crowley’s state worse, the demon gasping for air as he teetered on the precipice of a full blown panic.

“Listen, listen,” the blond grabbed spidery hands that were aimlessly searching for something to hold, “We weren’t there for Warlock then, but we can be here now. We can help them get back on their feet.”

Crowley let out an unsteady breathe, focusing on the point of contact of their hands.

The angel sighed, “My dear, you know they look up to you. You said it yourself. Can you overcome your own fears to help them?”

Crowley worried his lip, “’Suppose I have to. I’m not leaving them again.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really struggled with the direction I took of "the husbands left without a trace and don't reconnect with warlock after armageddon" because a) it's a painful thought and b) I didn't want to have to write all of the internal angst it puts Crowley through.  
> I'm not going to delve into it, lest we end up on chapter 400, but I think Warlock will never fully forgive them for leaving but why they did would deserve a whole other story. So, as it stands, I think that when they get closer again, Warlock will still have some trust issues that never really go away and Crowley has to learn to accept that the past is done and it doesn't necessarily mitigate the demon's commitment to their present relationship.   
> A lot of fics go the route of justifying any of Crowley's "mistakes" (I know it was a joint decision to leave Warlock but Crowley's the one most affected by it so) but I think in general the mistakes that we can't justify are more common yet neglected in fiction (because it seems neater to be able to provide justification for someone's choice). Sometimes we're selfish, or we just do things without thinking. I think in this case, Crowley was so focussed post-armageddon on his developing relationship with Aziraphale that he didn't think critically enough about the angel's suggestion to not reconnect with Warlock.

**Author's Note:**

> title taken from Anything but Lonely by Fivefold - good song, definitely on Warlock's misunderstood teenager playlist


End file.
